


Moments of the Past

by clownsxclowns



Series: Drabbles / Tumblr Requests [2]
Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Affection, Bad Writing, Cannibalism, Comforting, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Hoyt being an ass, Hugs, Nothing new there tho lol, Poor Thomas, Thomas has anxiety ;((, Tommy being an absolute sweetheart, VERY LONG READ (SORRY), Violence, chainsaws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownsxclowns/pseuds/clownsxclowns
Summary: Request on Tumblr: the reader reflects on the memories of the past few months and the moments leading up to how her life changed forever.





	Moments of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. So. I really got carried away with this lmao. TOMMY DESERVES LOVE OKAY? This took me 3 days - I need help. ANYWAY, this was kind of experimental??? Idk if that’s the right word to describe this, I tried playing around with my writing a bit and with technique. I honestly I have no idea if it works?? I hope y’all enjoy! Kinda scared it sucks lol, will be surprised if people read this - sorry for the length! :(

While you’re out on the porch, Luda May is inside speaking with Hoyt. You’re unsure as to what the subject matter is, but they’ve been arguing for the past few minutes; his reassurances, particularly that she’s worrying too much, only work to rile her up more. In some weird way it manifests the warm, familiar sensation of tranquillity; the tingling in your chest a response to the joy of what you have — who you have. 

A family. 

The weather is hot, almost unbearable, and it reminds you of the past. 

There’s a specific day, you recall.

The day your life changed forever. 

////

The Texan sun burnt into your flesh like a brand, making your skin hot and sticky. Perched in the back of your friend’s van, cramped up without so much as a breeze, your clothing clung to you. Desperate hands floated in front of you, fanning the beads of sweat that trickled down your forehead, leaving salty tracks in their path. You were sold on the idea that you’d all suffocate before reaching your destination. 

Mustering what was probably the last bit of energy you had, you called out to the driver. The passengers, five in total (with you included), were beginning to feel delirious from heat exhaustion, their bodies lax and slumped against the walls, sweating profusely. 

“(F/n)! It’s a fucking oven back here, we need to stop somewhere.” 

A chorus of agreement is heard, their agitated murmurs and obscenities filled the humid air around you, earning yourself a quick glare from (F/n). 

“Alright, alright. We passed a small store a few minutes ago. I’ll turn back,” is all they responded with, evidently aggravated. 

As the sounds of relief spread throughout the van, the piercing screech of the vehicle turning forced you to cover your ears, and before you knew it, you’re thrown to the other side. Sliding across the open floor of the van, you ended up sandwiching one of the others between the wall. 

You grumbled a sorry once the van stabilised, and turned to face the interior rearview mirror, catching the mischievous smirk of (F/n). 

“Bitch,” you uttered, their laugh cutting through the groans of pain. 

It was half an hour or so before you reached the stop (F/n) was talking about. Followed by another 10 minutes to settle inside, camping out in one of the small shops. 

'“A few minutes” my ass' you thought, the heat adding to your bitterness. You were beginning to think this whole 'road trip' thing, was a bad idea.

(F/n)’s friends, your acquaintances, were huddled around one of the tables, their boisterous laughter filled the room. As they sipped on beers, you were stationed on the other side of the shop, leaning against the wall waiting for (F/n) to emerge from the bathroom. 

It wasn't hard to notice with a bit of silent observation, that your group was annoying the lady at the counter; an annoyance that only worsened when one of the guys, you thought (name) was his name - though, you weren’t sure - dropped his beer. The bottle was empty, so none of the liquid spilled, but the glass shattered, the pieces gliding across the wooden floor. Frantic movement behind the counter had your eyes darting towards the woman. For the fear she was going to kick you all out, you rushed to her side, shooting her a sweet smile. 

“I’m sorry about them ma’am.” 

She burned a look into you and it was far from friendly. She may as well have said ‘fuck off’. 

Regardless, you persisted. 

“I’ll clean up the mess and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

Your attempts to defuse the situation worked, and she handed you a dustpan and broom. The scowl that had once manipulated her face lessened, and you just caught the hint of a smile. 

It was enough for you. 

Taking the cleaning equipment, you speedily cleaned up the destruction, telling the group once you were done to be more careful. Like they’re a bunch of teenagers and you’re the scolding mother, they booed at you. It was loud and obnoxious, no doubt the ruckus irking the owner more. 

As an involuntary response, you felt your eyes roll, already missing home. Seconds later, you returned the equipment to the older woman, careful not to spill the remnants. 

“Again, I’m really sorry about them, ma’am,” you said, a small flush of embarrassment coating your cheeks. 

“That’s alright dear, good things come to those who are polite,” she said. 

While sweet, coming from the woman that was previously moments away from losing her temper and kicking you all out, you can’t help but think the smile which tugs at her lips was ominous - eerie - it hastily tying a knot in your gut. 

You quickly excused yourself, saying you needed fresh air as you left her with a small smile. Not particularly caring about what the fuck (F/n) was doing in the bathroom for so long, you walked back into the hot Texan sun, the dry heat slowly frying you like an egg. 

From what you could only describe as an instinct, you made your way back to the van, noticing the legs on the other side of the vehicle. They were only visible from the small gap between the floor and the van, and you failed to recognise the shoes. 

The unfamiliarity struck you with a whirlwind of anxiety, forcing you to cautiously move toward the vehicle, and ultimately to the person. You maneuvered around the back of the automobile, stopping just where the car ended.

There was a man hunched over, towards the front door of the van. Although it was hard to see at your angle, his back was turned towards you, it looked like he was fiddling with something - hiding whatever it was in his hand. He wore a tan hat, the colour nearly matching his shirt, though it was a bit darker, with coffee-colored slacks.

“Sir?” 

The stranger froze. His brown leather shoes - pointed and worn - were the first thing to move towards you. When he rotated, your eyes darted to the glistening, golden broach on his shirt. It was a five-pointed star, and it almost blinded you from the reflection of the sun. 

A nervous smile found its way to your face as it clicked, and like a common criminal, you felt your hands start to sweat. It wasn’t as if you had anything illegal on you; just being near officers made you nervous - as if you had unknowingly committed a crime.

“How may I help you, sheriff?” You said.

You assumed he was taken aback by your politeness because his bushy, grey eyebrows pulled up in surprise. Though it was gone as soon as it appeared, you were able to catch it while his face flickered back to his permanent scowl. Were people alien to courtesy here? Why were they so surprised whenever you showed a shred of civility?

Weird. 

“Honey, this here your van?” His southern accent drawled, breaking the tension. It was thick and loud. 

The pet name made you want to gag, but you somehow restrained yourself. 

“No, it’s my friend’s. Why, is something wrong?”

He let out a hum, spitting to the side, “it’s not up to my standards.”

“Oh,” you paused to look back at the store, thumb pointing along with you, “I can get the owner if you’d like?” 

He failed to respond to your suggestion and advanced, looking you up and down. Your mouth grew dry, urging you to swallow. 

“What brings you to our little ol’ town, sweetheart?” He questioned, well aware you're not from around here. He was hardly a meter away from you, and you're able to see all his pores and blemishes; his sweat and wrinkles. To say you were uncomfortable was an understatement. 

“Oh, uh, just passing through,” your nervous laughter filled the air. The twitch of his nose signalled his suspicion as if he was a bloodhound specially bred for lies. 

“Keep outta trouble darlin’, or I’ll be seeing you.” 

“Y-Yes, sir.” 

His smile was anything but, it more of a sneer, with his snout crinkled. You’re forced to watch as he spat on the ground near his shoe again; his eyes squinted, lingering on your form for a short instant before walking off. The action made you internally cringe and you couldn't contain the sigh of relief when he completely vanished from view.

A few minutes later and the group started spilling out of the store, they were just as rowdy as before, two of them were stumbling around. Drunk. 

Great.

The urge to check what the Sheriff was doing to the car was shoved to the back of your mind. And then, the notion was entirely forgotten when you saw (F/n) back from whatever storm they were shitting. You watched them run over to the driver’s seat, their shrill call declaring that the last person to get in was going to be left behind. 

You observed everyone catapult themselves into the back following their statement, and you ran to the passenger's seat, not entirely sure if (F/n) was joking or not. The chance of getting your old spot back was slim to none and it was only when (F/n) started up the car, blaring their uniquely shitty music that you regretted the decision entirely. 

Maybe you should’ve stayed behind.

The minutes passed by like seconds. The heat was more bearable now, and you were finally able to breathe without it seeming like you were slowly suffocating. The clamour in the back was almost exclusively in the back, save for the CD inside the radio that had been turned down awhile ago. You found your mind wandered back to the events of earlier, to the sheriff. And after more thought, mostly about how weird the interaction was, you felt compelled to tell (F/n). 

“Um hey,” you started, instantaneously getting their attention, “the sheriff came by earlier. He was kinda...weird.” 

“Sheriff?” They made a face, mimicking disgust, “are you about to tell me you almost got arrested?” 

You laughed.

“No, but you almost were. He was complaining about how your van wasn’t up to his standards.” 

Their gasp ripped through the air, sudden and dramatic. With one hand continuing to direct the steering wheel, the other made its way to the dashboard, rubbing the vinyl soothingly, as if it had feelings. 

“Shhh, it’s okay baby, you’re up to my standards. You’re enough for me.”

“Okay, now I wish I had been arrested,” you mumbled, earning a laugh from (F/n), who had, by then, returned their attention to driving. 

“What an ass, my van’s perfect.” 

As if on cue, there was a loud pop! It was one that startled everyone, a harmony of screams echoed throughout the car as (F/n) slammed on the breaks. The van swerved two or three times before they gained control of the car, the wide country road large enough to accommodate the veering. 

Oh, the irony. 

“What the FUCK?” (F/n) shouted. 

The purr of the engine halted as (F/n) yanked the keys out of the ignition. Meanwhile, you worked to calm your pounding heart and your tattered breathing. It was a state that was continually snubbed by them as they hopped out of the car to investigate. A very audible string of curses fell from their lips once they reached the site. 

They’re on your side of the vehicle, the same area the Sheriff was at. Either he was right about the van not being up to standards, or he had done something to tamper with it. It was hard to believe that the sheriff could have done this, but then again he was kind of sketchy. If only you had checked prior, maybe this could have been avoided.

You hastily ignored the questions directed at you from the back as you followed (F/n)’s lead, your fingers gripping the door handle, curling around the latch before you pushed yourself out of the vehicle. (F/n)’s hunched over the front tire, their hands morphed into fists, as they rested on their knees. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“The fucking tire’s exploded!” (F/n) exclaimed, their hands shooting up in an abrupt movement. 

“Exploded? How-”

They interrupted you with their long strides, face twisted up in anger. Marching their way to the back door, their hands fiddled with the handle. One drag revealed the compartment and the others who looked up at (F/n)’s infuriated face. 

“Tire’s screwed. We’re gonna have to go searching for help.”

There were groans, but they were quickly crushed when (F/n) glared at the group, shutting them up. 

(F/n) started barking commands, motioning for the others to exit the vehicle. 

“Katarina, the four of us are going to go search around. We should be back in a bit.”

“What- you’re leaving me!?” 

“Well someone needs to watch the van and I only trust you with that.” 

Another classic case of (F/n) buttering you up to get what they wanted. You caved. 

“Fine. Just don’t be too long. This town’s giving me bad vibes.” 

(F/n) mumbled something about feeling the same way, before walking off with the rest of the group, leaving you alone and skittish. 

Your concept of time was flawed, with only the sun and its position as your guide. Daylight was diminishing with every few minutes, and you found it increasingly hard to believe that the group was going to be back anytime soon. The bubbling anger that had manifested was yet to subside, the twinge of betrayal festering. You understood why they did what they did, but it didn’t make you feel any better.

Now that you were alone, you’re hyper aware of everything; every small noise, the cicada's song, the occasional bird. You were also conscious of how quiet it was; if something happened would someone be able to hear you? Help you? Were there even any houses around? There seemed to be nothing nearby but grass and the occasional tree for miles. 

You were spiralling. 

Overthinking wasn’t helping and if anything it worsened the situation. You concluded that the best thing for you now was a distraction. 

You wiggled between the seats, careful not to knee anything on the console. When you fell into the back compartment with a grunt leaving your plump lips, you landed on your hands and knees. The distinctive fiery red hue of your luggage popped its way into view, and mindful of everyone else’s things, you made an effort to avoid damaging anything. Reaching the case, you freed the zip, fixed on finding one of the few books you had packed. Fingers operated with a mind of their own as clothing was tossed next to you, creating mounds. When you had discovered the novel, your features morphed into a grin, satisfied. 

Contorting your body to get back to the passenger's seat, you started reading. The minutes ticked by, and so did your energy. Exhaustion, an old friend, had caught up with you. Heavy eyelids, which struggled to stay open, fluttered shut, the visual world floating away.

////

Hoyt’s outside now, his argument with Luda well in the past as his wrinkled hands rest on his hips. He inhales loudly. Even though he’s often too busy to appreciate the beauty that surrounds the Hewitt household, he’s doing it now. Hoyt was, and always will be, a country man at heart. 

He’s unaware of your presence, only acknowledging you when you let out a groan from stretching. Making his way over to you, he sits down next to you wordlessly. 

Hoyt’s sadistic; he can be an asshole and sometimes incredibly narcissistic, but one thing was for sure, he cared about his family, and you were apart of that. The words that leave his mouth next are strange and unexpected, but you appreciate the trip down memory lane. 

He starts with a laugh, “you remember that time when I found you sittin’ in that van, all alone.” 

“You was sleepin’ like a baby. Sure as hell weren’t snorin’ like one - I scared the shit outta you,” you hear the humour in his voice, he doesn’t try to hide it and the porch fills with his wheezing laughter. 

“I don’t snore!” 

He gives you a look, one that screams disbelief. 

“Ask Tommy!” 

“Yeah, because the big guy would know, wouldn’t he?” He shoots you a wink.

The blood runs to your cheeks, crimson coating the flesh and Hoyt continues his laughing fit, your reaction priceless and worth the innuendo.

Under his prompt, you go to remember the details months after; they’re hazy. 

////

There was a collation of noises - distinctive. The crackling of gravel under wheels, the hum of something mechanical; wind. You ignored it, eyes remaining shut - your body way too heavy to move. Two white dots of light shifted into view, observable even with your eyes closed. They transformed into a bold red soon after.

It too, was ignored. 

Nothing could get you to move, not even when the light switched off, followed by the slamming of a door. 

Thud, thud, thud! 

Proven wrong, the unexpected noise had you jolting forward, hands striking the dashboard in shock. You looked out the window, the hope of it being your friends crushed when you saw the familiar tan hat taking up most of the frame. 

As a side note, you stole a glance at the sky, delighted to find that the sun had not set, the vibrant blue of the afternoon still prominent and kicking. It was only a matter of time, though. 

Speedily, you rolled down your window for the sheriff, your nerves performing the signature upturn of your lips. 

“Howdy again, sheriff!” You said, almost too enthusiastically. 

Naturally, he did not return your energy. 

“I thought I told you to say out of trouble.”

Your smile fell.

“What do you-” 

You’re interrupted by his sudden movements. The older man fiddled with his belt for a second or so, producing a torch. He clicked the button with his thumb, forcing you back into your seat as he stuck his head through the open window. The ray of the flashlight illuminated the back of the van, and it darted to every corner, every crevice.

“That‘s a lot of stuff for one person.” 

You cursed in your head, already knowing where this was leading to. 

Arrested in the middle of Texas under suspicion for transporting drugs while waiting for your asshole friends to return was not on your to-do list. 

Love that. 

“Not all of it’s mine, the tire exploded so my friends went to go look for help.” 

His flashlight, even though he did not need it in the daylight, shone on the damaged tire. He didn’t mention anything about it, as if forgetting about it entirely, and returned to the subject of your friends. 

“And they left little ol’ you alone?”

“Er - yeah…?” 

“Darlin’,” he said while he leaned against the car, “it sounds like you need new friends.” 

You can’t help but think the creepy old sheriff was right.

With one swift motion, the door groaned open. The officer, you now know as ‘Hoyt’ from his name tag, ordered you to exit the van. To avoid getting on his bad side, you did just that. 

The man’s moods shifted like the wind. 

Adjusting his hat, he turned away from you. With a flick of his wrist, coupled with the flex of his index finger, he wordlessly communicated that he wanted you to follow him. Leading you to his car just meters away from the van, you got into it under his command and he drove off without a word. You were entirely in the dark as to where he was going, though you were trying your hardest to avoid getting thrown into a holding cell - or worse jail - in another state. 

“What about the van?”

His hands danced around the dashboard, looking for something while he multitasked, eyes fixed onto the road. When he finally found it, he latched onto the small device holding it up to his mouth before speaking. 

“Monty get your ass over here, I have a van about a quarter mile from our place. Needs towin’.” 

“Towing?!”

Hoyt gave you a threatening look.

You shut up.

“Yes, sheriff,” there was an annoyed pitch to the man’s voice, though Hoyt didn’t acknowledge it. Whether it was because Hoyt didn’t care, or because he was unaware, you believed it was the former. 

“Are we going to the station, sir?”

There was no proper response to your question, just a grunt. 

Eventually, you arrived at a two-story house, it was made out of stone and was visually decrepit. 

Pillars supported the structure, though you’re unsure for how long that would last. The place looks straight out of a horror movie, the lowering sun embracing the building with its glow, doing nothing positive for it.

If there was ever a point in your life where something screamed ‘TURN BACK NOW’ this would be it. 

“This...doesn’t look like a station…” Your voice trailed off, a million and one scenarios sped through your mind.

Hoyt ignored you. 

When the sheriff parked, he leapt out of the vehicle and rounded to your side, opening the door for you. He barked a mean order to get out and when you don’t do so immediately, he lost his patience. Rough hands dug into your wrists and hauled you out of the car for you. Acting like he did you a favour, you struggled to stabilise your wobbly legs. You were shaking, unsure as to what exactly you did wrong. You doubted your state went unnoticed by the sheriff, a wicked smirk plastered on his chapped lips.

When he dragged you to the porch, you’re surprised to find the woman from the store is standing in the doorway, holding the door open with her body. 

Were there only 2 people in this town?!

“Easy on her Hoyt, she was kind enough to help me at the store today,” she gave the man a look, one of warning. 

His gaze shifted to you, orbs narrowed and rife with distrust - though he seemed like he was pondering her words. A grunt is heard and he released your throbbing wrist, propelling you in the direction of the woman. Her arms captured you in an embrace. The woman proceeded to scowl at the man, a look he ignores, as he moved past her into the house. 

“Oh dear, you must be hungry. Let me fix you up something to eat.”

“I’m not that hungry-” your stomach betrayed you, not even letting you finish your sentence, as your cheeks flare up in embarrassment. She grabbed onto your wrist much like the sheriff, though this time it was gentle and caring. Almost motherly. Reassuring. 

“Right through here,” she said, leading you to the kitchen, “take a seat right there, I won’t be a minute.” 

You do as she directed and make yourself semi-comfortable, the house difficult to get used to. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the burning gaze of another prominent. It was a feeling you managed to chalked off as in your mind, and so you tried to ignore it. The woman had been nothing but kind to you, were you just being judgemental? 

True to her word, she returned with a steaming hot cup of tea, the smoke dancing its way in the air around the cup. She had a bowl in her other hand, the contents only something you're able to get a good look at when it’s placed in front of you. The smell uppercut you, a pleasant homely aroma, though the visual wasn’t as appealing; it looked like some sort of stew. 

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian,” she laughed at her joke, strands of hair falling in front of her face as she does. She manoeuvred herself into the chair across from you, watching intently as you took a spoonful of her dish.

The meat was a weird texture, it was not something you’ve tasted before. 

Strange. 

Maybe they fed the cows differently here, which resulted in a different taste? You weren't sure. Regardless, it was edible in your borderline starving state; you could practically eat anything at this stage. 

“No, I’m not,” you chuckled with her, “thank you so much for your hospitality, ma’am. It’s really good!”

"It's May, dear," she continued, “Thank you, it’s a family recipe." 

“May,” you smiled, “I’m Katarina.” 

“Oh, such a sweet name for a sweet girl. Tommy would just adore you.” 

“Tommy?” You questioned, not remembering her mention him at all. 

She paused for a moment, teacup pulled back from her mouth as she stared into the drink. You’re almost convinced a fly’s fallen into the beverage, though you were also certain you would have seen it. She continued this unsettling act for a couple more seconds before a grin took hold of her features. The hairs on the nape of your neck rose as a result. 

“Oh, you’ll meet him soon enough.” 

The statement is as ominous as the one from earlier, perhaps more so, the dread building up and clawing at your heart. 

You changed the subject. 

“Have my friends come past by any chance? You saw them earlier at the store.” 

“I’m afraid they haven’t-”

May was cut off by a scream. It’s local and unsettling, its origin from below...perhaps the basement? You heard it again as you and May stare at each other, her eyes contained something dark and intense. Yet, they swirled with curiosity - intrigued at what you’d do; daring you to react. The shrieks were familiar, your brain searching for the missing puzzle piece until finally, it clicked. 

(F/n). 

To say you jumped up and bolted for the door was an understatement. 

May was faster than she looked, latching onto your hand like an anchor. She knew exactly how you’d react - like any normal person. 

Projecting a cry from the pain, you tried to free yourself from her death grip. 

“Let me go!” 

You repeated this over and over like it would make a difference. It does, but not the outcome you hoped, working to intensify her grasp. She proceeded to capture your other hand, not looking as though she would be letting them go anytime soon. 

“Such a shame,” she sighed, genuinely upset, “I’ve always wanted a girl.” 

Unsure of what that statement even meant, your foot connected with her knee in a final attempt to free yourself. A wounded gasp left her lips and she tumbled to the ground, her body joining the floor with a ‘thud’. You didn't feel remorse at the sickly sound, though you felt fear when she screamed out to Hoyt and to the man you had yet to meet, Thomas. Not wanting to find out who exactly ‘Tommy’ was, you retreated for the door, thankfully remembering your way around the house. 

There’s commotion all around the home as if there was a blind, scared dog on the loose; it’s poor body crashing into things, producing the thuds. You ran for the door, neglecting the aching pain in your hip as it collided with one of their pieces of furniture. 

The only thing that stopped you in your tracks was the knife plunged into your forearm. 

Hoyt leapt for you, weapon in hand. The blade glistened against the light, and he swiped - fast, hard and equally terrifying. You managed to dodge his first advance out of sheer luck, the knife aimed at your jugular, barely missing; centimetres away from your neck. With widened eyes, everything felt like it was in slow motion - like you were about to watch yourself die.

The second time he swung, you’re not as lucky. Like a rabid wolf, he was frothing at the mouth, eager to induce pain, to see crimson, and he got what he wanted when he stabbed you in the back of your forearm. Just before he had dug the blade into you, you raised your arms in self-defence covering your face. The metal scraped against the target area, leaving a thick, deep gash, the wound stopping just above your elbow. 

As an automatic response, you kicked him back - once in the stomach to which he hunched over from, and a second to the groin. 

“Goddamn!” He groaned in pain, rolling to his side in a ball, hands holding his crotch - though he sounded impressed by how hard you hit him. He was reduced to nothing but a mean old man and as grim and morbid as the situation was, you were happy to find that you were stronger than you thought.

You didn't have long to internally celebrate when you heard the slamming of metal. It sounded like a door, but there was more of an industrial ring to it. 

Maybe that was the infamous ‘Tommy’. 

Regardless, it was enough to send you sprinting for the door again. 

Quivering hands met the metal doorknob, those very same hands tore the door open, bouncing off the porch. The grass was long, thick and rifle with weeds. It tickled your legs and while it was a sign of freedom, it was far from comforting. You continued to sprint for your life, just missing a circular metal formation. It looked sharp, possessing razored edges, and a menacing trigger mechanism; a bear trap. 

If you had so much as altered your sprinting, your leg would have badly damaged - if not lost. 

There was no time to dwell on the multitudinous horrors of the day you told yourself, darting towards the trees. You're surprised to get as far as you had, though your mini, internal cheering is unexpectedly cut short, however.

First, you heard the sputter, the sound of a machine starting up - revving. The ruckus of a ripcord being pulled floated to your ears, it took a few tries of the action before the noise morphed into something else entirely. Something more dangerous and unique. The brattle ripped into the air like a war cry. 

It turns out you hadn’t escaped as you had so wanted to believe, and now, you were being fucking chased. 

With a chainsaw. 

Too scared to look back, you tried your best to run as fast as humanly possible. (F/n) was long forgotten, the frantic beating of your heart a sour reminder that you may soon be joining them. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit. 

Eventually, you caved and did exactly what you told yourself not to do. You looked back, attempting to measure distance. Instead, you lost your footing like a common horror movie character. Terrified, you fell to the ground with a shout, convinced you were about to end up in shreds, then be served as spaghetti. 

Curiosity killed the cat. 

Holding onto that last scrap of hope, you threw your hands up in surrender. This truly was your last chance at survival, the chainsaw that had caught up swifty - unfairly so, was shoved too close for comfort, mocking your cries while it buzzed.

“T-T-Thomas!” You stuttered, shaking hands conveying how much of a petrified mess you were. 

The sound of his name caused him to angle his head. You had caught him off guard. 

Good.

“T-Thomas, was it? Tommy?” 

This time it came out softer, though loud enough to hear over the roaring of the chainsaw. The man continued to look at you, confused. 

Able to get a better view of the homicidal maniac in front of you, you first noticed his eyes, blue and shimmering as he hunched over you. 

As much as you hated to think about it, they were beautiful and captivating. 

If it wasn't for the fact that he was about to slaughter you with a fucking chainsaw, and the blood coated apron thrown over his neck, you would have thought him attractive.

His giant form blocked out the setting sun from where you are, beneath him. The tree’s canopies were your only source of speckled light. Messy black strands of hair littered his face, some stuck to his forehead due to sweat, others hung freely. His breathing was noticeably ragged, large intakes expanded his large frame, yet there was no noise to it, silent and much like him, threatening.

You grew curious at the leather muzzle overlaying his face, it was brown and worn, but intriguing. It failed to cover the entrance to his mouth, so as stupid as you believed the thought was, he wasn’t wearing it because he bit people.

What else could it be for?

When he stepped closer to you, you scrambled backward, mentally kicking yourself for losing yourself in your thoughts. The rough trunk of the tree you backed into stole an ‘oof’ from you, signifying that there was no more space to retreat to.

“G-Ge-et ba-back!” It’s hardly a confident exclamation, though it seemed to somewhat do the trick. 

He stood still for a long time. You’re anxious there’s no swaying him until he lowered his chainsaw. Although it’s still running, loud and clear, his stare was intense and never left you. His thick brows were furrowed, and there was confusion in his eyes, bright and obvious. 

Taking advantage of this once in a lifetime second chance, your hands pushed yourself off from the ground, back rubbing against the tree. The wound on your forearm had not stopped bleeding, a stream of blood continuing to seep out. Due to the angle you stand up from, your injury is pushed up against the bark forcing a cry from your throat. 

In a sudden movement, he lifted his chainsaw, the action immediately drew out a scream from you, as you thought the worst. Shutting your eyes, you fell to the ground and you said a silent prayer, waiting for impact. The chainsaw continued to roar, then finally, a few final sputters indicated its stop. There was a singular thud - heavy and metallic, followed by silence. 

When you opened your eyes again, it’s only then when you realised you’re not dead, the man still in front of you. His blue eyes observed you intently, his form shrouded by the shadows. 

Not particularly a graceful man, he abruptly stepped closer, stopping at your legs. Then, he fell to his knees, inspecting you further. His hands reached out to grip your face and suddenly, you’re trapped in his hold while he squeezes at certain places in your face. 

It was hard to contain your whimpers and sobs. It caught his attention and when the tears inevitably fell, he, dare you say, caringly, wiped them away with his thumb. 

“Thomas,” you whispered, “please don’t hurt me.” 

////

The next time you return from your flashback, recalling the woman you once were, it was at the Hewitt dinner table. You don’t know why you’re reminiscing. It’s not because you miss your old life - far from it. The past is apart of who you are, no matter how hard you try to dissociate from it.

The memories weren't uncomfortable, they weren't haunting - just neutral. How you perceive the past, those thoughts and memories are a reflection of yourself. Where you’re at mentally. 

Memories are like mountains, they pile up throughout your lifetime. Over time, bits and pieces fall off the rock due to weathering, while others form stronger, more stable parts of the stone. And just like mountains, memories can be daunting; scary and hard to get over. Some people never reach the top, tormented, with every day posing a challenge; some fall and get back up. For others, it’s a while before they do. 

Neither option is right or wrong, sometimes it’s what's needed at the time. We all scale mountains in our minds, progressing at different speeds. 

It is with this that, you realise you’re one of the lucky ones. To look at the past with an impartial lens, to recognise the happiness in some, the tragedy within others, but still remain content and engaging with the present; it was a feat. 

Everyone had noticed your distance, your movements automatic and trance like as you play with your food. 

Luda’s the first to speak. 

“Dear, what’s wrong?” Luda’s sitting to the right of you. A gentle hand reaches its way over, stopping just before your plate, an attempt to comfort you. 

You tell them the memory - about the first time you arrived at the house and they all fall silent. Monty’s yet to say anything and Thomas, to your left, is focusing on a small stain in the tablecloth. He’s uncomfortable. 

Hoyt then bursts out in laughter, his hand slapping his knee, “oooh-ee, you kick like a mean bitch! That shit hurt for days!” 

Finding solace in his laughter, you’re glad to find that there's some sort of humour to the event, especially since things could have gone drastically wrong. 

In your best attempts to reassure Tommy, your hand snakes its way to his knee under the table, rubbing soothing circles. This gets his attention, his gaze locking with yours; the slight twitch of his cheeks tells you he’s smiling softly, his eyes twinkling with admiration. Though, it doesn’t last long and he returns to the very same spot on the table. 

Dinner passes by rather quickly after sharing the memory, and when you're virtually finished assisting May with the dishes, you feel familiar hands enveloping your hips, large but antithetical in their tenderness. 

A grin takes hold of your face when he rests his chin on top of your head, hunching slightly because of how short you are compared to him. 

"Hey, Tommy."

He squeezes your hips in reply as you finish wiping down the last of the wet plates. The squeaking of the ceramic grates on you and you pick up your pace, eager to spend time with your boyfriend. Thomas lets go of you when he sees you're done, allowing you to put away the kitchenware, but quickly grabs your hand afterwards, impatiently leading you to the front door. He’s just as excited to spend time with you. 

In seconds, you’re out on the porch. Tommy sits down on the wooden bench and he grabs you by the hips again, lifting you effortlessly and placing you on his lap. Adjusting, you drape your legs across his legs, feet just barely hanging off as the wind softly blows through your hair. It’s cool for a change, strange in Texas, and it nips at your bare skin, causing you to nestle into Thomas. He's far from feeling cold, you knew this, with him being the literal personification of a heater. He notices your sudden chill though, and his strong arms pull you into a giant hug, your tired head resting against his shoulder.

Your thoughts suddenly turn back to the events at dinner - his distance, and why he was so quiet.

“Where’d you get off to at dinner, Tommy? You seemed out of it.”

The words trigger a memory and you witness him react with pain as you look up at him, gentle eyes squinting. It almost makes you want to retract the question entirely. 

Softly, and with care, he removes his arms from around you, grabbing your wrist and raising it to display a large gash on the forearm. The flesh is healed, risen in a ghastly mix of (s/c) and white. His large fingers hover over the scar, delicate and tentative as if he was scared of reopening it again - scared of reliving the memory. 

You look down to the wound, a bittersweet monument; bitter because the son of a bitch hurt, and because Hoyt was an ass. Sweet because in spite of all the pain and agony you had to endure that day, the best thing to come out of it was Tommy. The days that initially followed were hard, but you came to realise that the man you had viewed as so terrifying and murderous, was in fact only doing what he needed to help his relatives survive. He was a big softy when it came down to things, caring and protective of those he could call family. 

“Hey,” you whisper, looking into his large, melancholy cerulean eyes, “it’s not your fault.” 

He grunts in response, and you already know it’s a protest to your statement, most likely finding a way to justify how you’re wrong. 

A frown finds its way to your face, and you hush him. Whenever he got into his sad, guilty moods it was hard to get him out of it. Thomas couldn’t talk, and that in itself made it difficult for him to express himself. He was often in his head as it was his only form of escapism, and by that same token, it was also his own hell. He experienced anxieties like everyone else, and spirals of self-doubt - of shame. The poor man was exceptionally critical of himself. You could only imagine what was going through his head. 

It was hard to see your boyfriend like this. 

Switching your position, your legs parting on both sides of his lap, you grab his hands, bringing them up to your lips. 

“You can’t control anyone else’s actions Tommy, and I don’t blame you for it. There’s nothing you could have done to stop him.” 

He doesn’t reply, but he’s listening intently to what you’re saying.

“I love you more than anything, and I forgave you a long time ago.”

“It’s time to forgive yourself.” 

You watch his face as it contorts into happiness, you don't necessarily see the smile itself, it covered by his leather muzzle, but you can see it in his eyes. They were the most expressive part of Thomas, and you could often figure out what he was feeling with just one look. 

Watching those very same eyes become glassy breaks your heart. Perhaps it was something he had been holding onto a long time, or maybe he just really needed to hear it, either way, your words impacted him. 

He brings his hands to your face, cupping your cheeks. Then, he tilts his head, bringing his lips to yours. The kiss is slow, sweet and full of love.

If someone had told you months ago that you were going to find the love of your life and settle down, you would have laughed in their face. Shit happens and life changes so fast it’s hard to keep track sometimes. 

But for this, you are thankful. 

Wanting to see your boyfriend happy, your wiggling fingers dart to his sides, causing him to writhe and grunt in laughter. You weren’t expecting him to be so ticklish and you file the information away to use again later; his joy is a beautiful sight - his amusement a beautiful sound - and it’s one you’re certain to remember. 

Your moment of awe is cut short when he turns the tables. He very easily breaks free, and one of his significantly larger hands digs into your side, while the other holds you in place, ensuring you won’t escape. Your giggles are the only thing that can be heard, apart from the crickets and the gentle melody of wind chimes. 

“T-Thomas!” You somehow manage to blurt out through frantic laughter, “you’re hurting me!” 

The sound of your chuckles is enough to convince him otherwise, though he stops and brings a calloused hand to your face, rubbing small circles with his thumb. You lean into his touch and revert to the position you were in before, his arms securely around your smaller frame. 

Spending slow, lazy nights with Thomas on the porch was something you loved, and wouldn’t trade for the world. Although you’re usually both out here to see the celestial glow of the sky - pinks, purples, and oranges scattered around to depict the perfect artwork - the stars are here instead. Just as beautiful, you can’t particularly describe your feelings as you watch the stars twinkling their soft hello’s. Without fail, no matter how many times you attend the show of the universe, you always felt something. It was a sensation you loved to share with Tommy; maybe it was love, elation, but even then the words felt wrong. They weren’t enough to describe such feelings. 

But perhaps you didn’t need to. 

Experiencing it was enough.

It wasn’t hard to conclude Tommy felt the same as the two of you sat there. Rather than counting down the seconds, waiting for the tranquil moment to end - dreading its end, you drink in its bliss, intoxicated by it. Happy to share this small, little moment in time.

With him.


End file.
